


Seventeen

by sheskindahoran



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Peter Parker, Domestic Violence, Gay Peter Parker, Hurt Peter Parker, M/M, Manipulative Quentin Beck, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Pre-Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Questioning, Sexual Violence, Tony Stark is alive, Villain Quentin Beck, Violence, and beck takes advantage of this kid, peter is trying to figure out his sexuality, quentin beck is a pos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheskindahoran/pseuds/sheskindahoran
Summary: After an increasingly confusing self-deliberation about his sexuality, Peter returns to a gay bar--now alone, but still underage--and Quentin Beck wastes no time sweeping him up.Fuck. He seemed so good.Fuck.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	1. one

Peter flops down on his bed with Ned on his heels. He hears his best friend close the door softly and sit down at his desk.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Ned starts. “Or we can not. I can bore you and talk about anything else. Or we can just mess with some LEGOs. Or play video games. Or watch TV. Or—”

“Shh, Ned,” Peter mumbles into the pillow. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to be here.”

“Oh, please. I’m not leaving.”

Peter sighs deeply, but not in frustration, just exhaustion. He rolls on his shoulder until he’s facing up at the ceiling. Ned waits for him, leaning back in the chair and looking out the window instead.

A minute or so passes before Peter takes in a deep breath again and nods his head towards the wall.

“I don’t know. I feel…bad. All over. I feel guilty,” Peter says.

“Why? I think you did the right thing.”

“I just—like, I don’t know. I liked her. I liked hanging around her, and she was funny, and she was cute, I think, but I never felt excited the way I did the night we went to that _other_ club.” A pause. “Miles was invigorating.”

“What exactly did you tell MJ?”

“Kind of similar to what I told you—that I loved hanging out with her, and it was so comfortable and easy and _nice_ when she was around, but I couldn’t stop thinking about ‘what if?’ The Peter I imagined in my head was so bold and kind of…fooled around with anybody. He didn’t feel so responsible for his actions.”

“So, what then?” Ned says. “Is it that you’re tired of being the protector?”

“I don’t know, Ned,” Peter responds, exasperated. “I don’t know what I am, other than a fuck-up. I don’t know what I want. I’m only seventeen, for Christ’s sake. I should probably focus on other things other than who I may or may not like.”

Ned scrunches up his face. “No, actually, I think this is the most appropriate time for you to start to try and figure things out. You don’t need to learn _everything_ about yourself, but don’t shut it all out, either.”

Peter doesn’t respond, and instead rolls a little more so he’s facing the wall. Ned pushes the chair a little closer to the bed, leaning over to pat his friend’s shoulder a few times. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’m never going to really understand, I know, but I’m always willing to try, and I’m always available for you. You know that.”

Peter inhales deeply.

“Hey,” Ned starts, “it’s Friday. Let’s do something fun! Here: where’s your phone? I’ll call my friend who works at The Purple Parrot and we can—Hey, Connor! Pet—”

“Ned, stop!” Peter shouts, jerking up. Ned pauses mid-sentence. “Please. I think I want to be left alone for a little bit. I-I’m sorry.”

Ned’s mouth twitches into a pitiful half-smile. “Okay. Never mind, Connor. Thanks though. See ya later,” Ned says into the receiver, putting down the phone afterwards. “That’s okay. Do you want me to go? We can do nothing for a while, too. Or watch a movie. Just tell me what you need.”

Peter meets Ned’s eyes before the air in his throat catches and he says, “I just need to think for a bit. By myself.”

Ned nods in acceptance. “Are you gonna go… _out?_ ”

He shrugs. Vigilantism does clear his head, but he doesn’t totally want to risk running into any of the other masked heroes of New York right now. He doesn’t really feel like talking.

“Okay,” Ned says, standing up with his backpack. “I can be back later, if you want. Or you can FaceTime me to talk or just to let me ramble about my quantum project. I’ll be around.” He smiles at his best friend softly before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door again. A minute later, Peter hears the click of the front door before sighing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Maybe he just wanted to be touched. He and MJ weren’t even totally dating yet, and she seemed kind of okay with being friends still, but the guilt of leaving her with only a vague explanation of why felt so incredibly wrong and dishonest, even though he didn’t know how to word himself better. He didn’t _know_ what he wanted.

Peter grunts out a loud snarl of frustration, soon kicking off his pants and sliding under the covers of his bed, warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the window. He unlocks his phone and swipes out of the phone app, switching over to his private window on Safari.

In the span of about twenty minutes, he’s looked through seven different websites and has scrolled through a number of different categories of videos ( _and_ gotten off, like, three times. Good day). But there’s no consistency to what he watches. There never really had been, though.

He takes his hand out of his boxers and turns off his phone. It’s late autumn, so the sun is already dipping behind the skyline and beginning to leave his room shrouded in a light gray. There’s little to do but work on homework or go swing around outside, so he opts for the latter. At least until it actually gets dark. Then maybe he’ll chill out.

After locking up the apartment, Peter climbs down the fire escape, his suit on underneath his jacket and pants. Once he makes it into the building’s neighboring alley, he pulls off his civilian clothes, pulls on his mask, and climbs up on the brick wall, webbing up the pile of clothes for later before continuing on to the roof.

He stands at the very edge of the building, letting the chill of the autumn wind sweep through his suit. It gives him energy. Peter looks down at the pavement far below, and then turns around, back facing the sun, and falls.

The wind _whooshes_ past his ears, and a grin begins to light up his face as he recognizes that his power is unlike any other. With one twist and one _thwip_ out towards the building across the street, Peter narrowly misses the ground and is sent flying into the city.

He smiles and tries not to think about the ramifications of his earlier confessions.

…

It’s been dark for two or three hours by the time he gets back. May won’t be home tonight—she went straight from her shift to a well-deserved night with some work friends—so he doesn’t need to worry about explaining himself.

Peter showers and changes back into regular clothes before digging around in the fridge. He settles for a meek ham and cheese sandwich and a banana, and then plops down on the couch. There are no new messages from anybody—just some Twitter notifications and auto-generated emails—but he doesn’t really know what he expected. Mr. Stark is a busy guy, May is out on the town, he asked Ned to let him be for the night, and he just “broke up” with MJ. Who did he think would text him? Liz? Flash? Happy? Honestly. The circle is not that wide.

With “Shark Tank” on in the background, Peter drifts back to Miles and his…hands. All over. Warm. Firm.

He’d revealed to Ned about two weeks ago that this thing with Michelle didn’t totally feel right, that he was just playing along, that he hadn’t ever really been good at saying “no” and now here he was, coming back from a second date with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, no, but he couldn’t help but think about being with another guy, maybe. Just _being_ with them. He didn’t have the words to explain.

But instead of interrogating him, Ned offered to get them into The Purple Parrot—a lesser-known gay bar not too far from Midtown where his friend and neighbor bartended at. “Not to pressure you into anything,” Ned had said, “Not to push you into a label. Just to see if you’re comfortable here, and if you enjoy reciprocating that kind of attraction.”

So they’d gone out on the Friday prior, Peter dressed to impress, Ned dressed to blend in. Of _course_ Ned was going, even if he didn’t want to kiss any boys—there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d leave Peter to go to a club neither of them had ever been to, alone, underage, and unsure of what the night would reveal.

Ned’s friend Connor brought them in through the back, sneaking them through the kitchen and out into the open. Peter, becoming emboldened by the night, had let himself fall into the crowd. Ned stayed by the bar, sipping on a martini glass full of Sprite and keeping an eye on the door to make sure his best friend never left.

Miles—that was the name of the boy Peter had met at The Purple Parrot. He had smooth, dark skin and hair that invited Peter to constantly tangle up his fingers in it. A student at NYU, Miles was only a year or so older, but he held Peter close with the confidence of an older man and kissed him with the kind of expertise that comes only with much practice. In short, he felt _good_ against the high schooler.

Before he left, Peter left his number in Miles’s phone.

Miles didn’t call.

But Peter didn’t care much—he hadn’t been looking for a relationship anyways. He didn’t want to talk much at all right now. If he were to, he felt like he’d end up spilling everything about his life, including the stuff he didn’t want to talk about and the stuff he wasn’t _allowed_ to talk about. He didn’t need to unload all of that on some kid his age—they could barely deal with their own _school_ -related crap, much less near-death experiences, death itself, debilitating guilt, sexual confusion, anxiety, loneliness, and the list goes on. If he was going to _really_ talk to somebody in the near future, it needed to be a therapist.

As for tonight? He’d pushed away the only person willing to come keep him company at the moment. The boredom had more than crept in.

So he huffs out a breath, picks up his sandwich plate and turns off the TV, and soon enough, finds himself reopening the phone app and switching to the “Recents” tab. At the very top, a number he doesn’t recognize beckons his touch.

At 10:30 p.m., he dials back.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to The Purple Parrot. It's a good time.

What do boys wear when they go out?

Peter rummages through his closet over and over again, realizing he hadn’t totally thought about it before. He never really had a reason to, though—it’s not like “wild” Friday and Saturday nights are something he and Ned make a habit of.

He settles for straight, black jeans (with a hole in the right knee that wasn’t there last month and seems to get bigger every day) and a turquoise-colored crew neck. After slipping into his “more mature” sneakers, he grabs his keys and phone, fusses with his hair one last time in the mirror, practices a smile or two, and leaves through the front door, locking it behind him.

The Purple Parrot is out towards Midtown, tucked away in a dingy little area several blocks from the subway station. So Peter hops on the next train, feeling weirdly like he’s on his way to school, and tries not to think too much about what he might look like to everyone else here.

It’s sometime around 11 p.m. as they cross into Manhattan. Supposedly, like they’d agreed on the phone, Peter will meet Connor where they met last week—behind the building—and will bring him inside through the kitchen again. He’s given Peter some tips on getting drinks, too, because since Peter doesn’t have a fake I.D. for Connor to haphazardly check, he can’t send him anything directly. Not that it matters—Peter can’t really get drunk.

Ned won’t be with them this time, but Peter can’t tell how he feels about that. Of course, he loves having his best friend around to watch out for him and give him a safe exit if he needs one, but by being alone, Peter has agency. He doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone, or keep things PG, or go home alone. He can do whatever he likes. He won’t feel guilty or weird for kissing a guy. There’s no one around to preserve a reputation for.

As he approaches the bar, seeing an unprecedented mid-size line queued up in front of the bouncer and purple lights flashing out of the window, he gets a little nervous. He wants to be bold—so _badly_ does he want to be bold—but that’s something usually reserved for his Spider-Man persona. As Peter Parker, well, that’s laughable.

He stops and leans against the building at the end of the block, only twenty or so feet from the bar. 

_You don’t owe anything to anyone._

_You look good._

_You can leave whenever you want._

_You can say no._

It’s kind of cold outside, but Peter didn’t want to risk losing any of his jackets, so he’d just shoved his hands deep in his pockets, ignored how the hair on his arms stood up more than usual and how his skin was riddled with goosebumps, and huffed along. The dying adrenaline, however, is making him realize just _how_ bitter the wind is.

He scratches the back of his head and takes a look at the crowd in line. They all look so _good_ , and Peter can’t tell if his opinion is just objective or if it’s sexually charged, too. He knows he doesn’t look like that. Is it worth the disappointment?

Just as he decides to turn on his heel and sulk back to the apartment, a man, drunk off his ass, knocks him into the wall. The guy is laughing so hard at his friends that he doesn’t even realize what he’s done, but one of the boys trailing him sees it unfold and hurries over. He rights Peter again, apologizes quickly for his friend, smiles softly, and runs to catch up. It’s such a whirlwind of events, but it fires Peter up again. He wants to feel all goofy and silly and fun like that other guy.

He turns the corner and texts Connor that he’s here.

A minute later, Connor pops his head out of the back door, smiles excitedly, and pulls Peter in before he has a chance to fluff up his hair again.

“Glad you made it!” Connor shouts over the music. “I see you did end up flying solo. Well, if you need _any_ help, just pull on your ear like we talked about before.”

They get to the door separating the closed kitchen from the rest of the bar. Connor pushes through first, dragging Peter’s wrist behind him.

“Alright!” Connor says, releasing him. He grins widely at Peter, who is working to let himself relax in the beat of the music. “Go get ‘em, king!” With that, he gives Peter a friendly slap on the ass and then disappears back behind the bar.

Peter inhales deeply, closing his eyes and feeling the bass rip through his chest.

_You look good._

_You can say no._

Okay.

He falls into the crowd, quickly feeling hands push him towards a widening crook. Without thinking about whether or not people might be staring, or admiring, or doing anything with him in mind, Peter lets his arms float upwards and pump to the rhythm of the beat. His hips start to gyrate and his shoulders pop and lock into place, and everything begins to feel kind of good. Here, there’s no repercussions to just pretending. These are just strangers. They won’t ever see him again, and they don’t know his name, or his history, or his abilities, and suddenly, he’s so ecstatic to be a faceless member of the mob. There’s no need to prove himself.

Lizzo begins to play, and the room lights up.

 _Damn,_ Peter thinks, letting his body rock, _to be young in New York._

The whole room sings along loudly, and Peter closes his eyes, not thinking about anything. He doesn’t even really notice when the DJ folds the song into something darker, more sexual, more mature, and how the hands on his waist are not his own.

It’s not harmful, though, and it excites him to think that somebody finds him attractive from afar, so he doesn’t make a move to get away. As the song continues, the stranger’s hands move across Peter’s chest—up, down, _down_ , pinching at his waist, rubbing along his firm abdomen, slowing down across his nipples—

Peter shifts a little, not sure he’s comfortable with this without even seeing the guy’s face. The stranger lets it rest for a moment, keeping his hands on Peter’s waist and breathing warm air next to Peter’s right ear. God. That’s kind of hot.

He can tell that this guy has a good body, just from how he presses up against Peter and holds him. Even his hands show off an impressive grip. And Peter—at least, the Peter of the night—isn’t one to shut someone like that down while he’s still running on adrenaline. 

The music shifts into something probably suited more towards a club, but the man keeps his grip firm on Peter. So he plays along, wanting to be a good partner, and lets this stranger explore a little more and push his hips into Peter’s ass.

He feels his heart speed up.

Is he excited? Nervous?

Scared?

_You can say no._

Peter clears his head again, letting himself think only about the lyrics shouted out around him. He knows he’s in control of himself. It’s not like he’s drunk (not that he could be, with his weird bodily functions). He has agency.

Finally, he’s spun around to face his partner. Before he can even register the slight stench of alcohol coming from the man’s shirt, a pair of soft, delicate lips comes to meet his own.

It’s not messy. The man doesn’t shove his tongue in places it’s not wanted, he doesn’t bash their teeth together, and he doesn’t suck too hard on Peter’s bottom lip. His scruff feels so manly and mature and invigorating. With one hand tangled up in Peter’s curls and the other cupping his jaw, the stranger opens Peter up. Peter, in turn, can feel himself pushing into his partner’s body.

The other man pulls himself away momentarily, shifting towards the younger boy’s neck and jawline, leaving a line of hot kisses. Peter feels dirty, like someone in a movie, allowing his head to loll over and his eyes to close.

He hopes he’s a good kisser.

The man finishes and they both return to their original positions, only Peter feels a little more empowered now and he supposes his new friend does, too.

“Quentin,” the stranger says into his ear, introducing himself. _Quentin_ , Peter thinks, smiling giddily. He turns back halfway and says his own name back. Quentin smiles, too.

“Mm, _Peter_ ,” Quentin says against his neck, sucking on it for a second. One of his hands suddenly appears again in Peter’s hair and gives it a few tugs, opening up his neck a little more.

He lets Quentin take control, thrilled at the prospect of giving over a little bit of responsibility, just for a little bit.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Quentin asks, and Peter appreciates the thought, but he turns and smiles and shakes his head “no,” because he doesn’t want to waste this guy’s money on barely a buzz. Quentin nods and turns Peter a little more, moving to kiss him again.

It’s a little deeper this time. Hands run up and down Peter’s sides, pressing against his ribs and making him feel good and strong and skinny, before one slips down his backside and takes a grab at his ass. Peter lets him, but when he moves away from his hand, he moves into the rest of Quentin’s body. It’s okay. Peter’s still in control.

He wraps his arms loosely around Quentin’s neck, grabbing his own wrist on the other side, and rests his head on the man’s shoulder as some Top 40 remix plays.

There’s no denying it—this man is _hot_. Like, in every aspect. He has good hair, and his eyes are piercing, and his scruff is shaved so perfectly, and, God, this is a _man_.

Suddenly, the room is incredibly hot. Peter’s overheating, his face flush and his heart beating fast. Quentin is a man, and Peter—Peter’s still a kid. He feels more guilty than he ever had before. Quentin could get in _huge_ trouble if any authorities found out he was… _fraternizing_ with an underage boy. He wouldn’t be 18 for several months. _Shit._

He should get out of here. It was fun and all, but that’s all he should probably be looking for at this point in his life. Right? He shouldn’t be looking for someone to, well, take care of him. Or love him, or anything. It should just be…for fun.

Peter opens his mouth to excuse himself, but Quentin sees it as an invitation to kiss him again. And Peter loves the way it feels, so he doesn’t stop him until several beats later.

“Do you want to go someplace else with me?” Quentin breathes into Peter’s ear before he gets a chance to say anything. The bold part of Peter is desperate to agree, to explore this side of him, to explore his earlier confessions, but the overwhelming majority of Peter—that is, the rational side—says he needs to leave and save Quentin the trouble. Maybe there’s still enough time for his new friend to find someone else to take home. Someone more his age.

“I do,” Peter says, resignation in his voice, “but I can’t. I should get home. I’m from Queens.”

Quentin smiles. “Bambi, so far from home, and this late at night? Let me help you home. I live out that way, too.”

He’s so, _so_ tempted. This feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, like no one of this man’s caliber will ever pay this much attention to him again, like he’s lucky to be wanted.

Quentin must see Peter’s inner turmoil playing out, so he makes a call himself, pulling out his phone and opening up a new contact page. Peter looks down at the phone, then back up at Quentin’s stunning face, and then back to the screen.

He takes it in his hand, knowing Quentin is smiling above him.

Once he gives it back, Peter’s new friend immediately texts him with his full name: Quentin Beck.

Then, after putting the device back in his pocket, he grabs Peter close one more time, squeezing his ass hard and kissing his lips like he’s hungry, before they break apart and Quentin slips out of the crowd towards the bar. For a good thirty seconds, Peter stands there, not sure what to do with himself. The last hour, two hours maybe, have been a whirlwind of events. He takes another breath and then pushes to the exit.

Outside, the air is cold and fresh. Peter feels dizzy.

Is it from excitement?

A breath.

_You are in control._

Another breath.

Another.

Okay.

He collects himself and starts home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're liking it so far. let me know your thoughts :)
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ironspyderr too!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be Beck/Peter interacting at The Purple Parrot and then the immediate aftermath. :) let me know if I should continue!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ironspyderr


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